


Late Night,           Shady Belle.

by WeNeedARuse



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bisexual Arthur Morgan, Bisexual John Marston, Bottom John, Desperation, Drabble, Love/Hate, M/M, My First Work in This Fandom, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Sex, Top Arthur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-24
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-11-29 07:32:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18220109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeNeedARuse/pseuds/WeNeedARuse
Summary: John knows what he wants and how to get it. Arthur knows neither.





	Late Night,           Shady Belle.

**Author's Note:**

> Sooooo, long time lurker of many fandoms, first time poster on AO3 (also haven’t written any fanfiction in about 15 years!) but this idea has been swimming around my head for a couple of months now and I needed to get it out of my system.  
> Also Arthur and John need to fuck. And Arthur needs to resolve that tension with Dutch...just sayin...
> 
> Comments and kudos would be spectacular:)
> 
> As no one knows I’m even posting this, all spelling and grammar errors are mine. Sorry. I wrote it on my phone at 3am...
> 
> Also, please let me know if I’ve fucked up the tags, or if the rating is wrong. The system confused this old brain.  
> (Thanks for reading this stupidly long intro)
> 
> Edit-attempted to fix formatting. Don’t know how well it worked tho...

Arthur felt for the gun under his pillow and slowly curled his fingers around it. The sound, soft though it was, had pulled him from sleep and he kept his eyes closed, listening out for more. Satisfied it was nothing, he let his fingers slip.

“You always sleep naked?” The gun was out and pointed at the window before he even had a chance to register the voice. “Oh, so not full naked then.”  
“What do you want Marston?” He pushed himself to sitting, pressing the heels of his hands to his closed eyes, his gun dangling idly from one finger.  
“Heard you saw that Mary Linton again.” Arthur grunted in response. He didn’t want to talk about it. And he especially didn’t want to talk about it to John Marston. “You good?”  
“What do you want?” He asked again, blatantly refusing to look at him. He knew where he was, seated on the little table by the broken window. He could feel him. It was a curse that John had left him with.  
“Wanted to see if you wanted to talk.” He did look up at that, up past John at the pitch black sky behind him. No moon tonight, only campfires to light Shady Belle. Talk? Now?  
“Are you drunk?” He heard John laugh, that stupid gravelly laugh. He swallowed, hard.  
“Little bit.” He laughed again and this time Arthur let himself look. A dark silhouette, waving a half empty bottle at him. He was glad he couldn’t see his face. “Tiny little bit. Place is quiet, I got nothing to do. Thought I’d come up here and see you.” Arthur, still sleep fuddled, still crushed on the memory of a woman, rubbed his tired eyes again and growled,  
“Get the fuck outta here.”  
“You’re always a bastard after you’ve seen her.” Johns comeback sounded dull, the sting missing. It snagged on Arthurs mind and dug in. He hated him for it. Hated the whole goddamn world right now and John Fucking Marston most of all.  
“Maybe if you fucked her and got it outta your system you’d feel better.”  
“Maybe if you watch your goddamn mouth I won’t throw you out the window.” 

He watched as John stood and peered through the broken window.  
“Looks like a soft enough landing.” He wasn’t unsteady on his feet, so not that drunk. The lines of his body were stark in the shadows. Arthur pushed his gun back under the pillow. “Did you?”  
“Did I what?” He knew what he was asking. What he always asked. What he feared and… “John…” He heard his voice turn soft, the tone once had, the one he’d used in dark nights like this. Nights when he used only that name. Dark nights, that silhouette, the shadows lulling him.

“You can take it out on me.” And at once the shadows dissipated and in front of him stood a fool. Arthur found his voice surprisingly steady, if cold, when he asked  
“Take what out Marston?” He knew John knew the difference, knew he wasn’t going to be so stupid as to continue this on.  
“What you done to her, what she done to you.” The bottle swung in a soft arc, as if illustrating his words. “The pain. All of it.” Arthur looked to the bottle instead of John, and swallowed down his anger.  
“I ain’t never gonna do that.” He heard John sit again, heard him take a swallow from the bottle. He would not look at him, not now. He couldn’t trust himself to.  
“You could.” No, John, he thought, don’t do that to me, don’t hand me that chance. I’m too weak.  
“What kind of man do you think I am?” Good, he told himself, steady steady.  
“A good one.” Johns voice was soft too now, as was his laugh. “A bad one.” Arthur scoffed at that. “One that I want.” So. 

And so. 

“You always want what you can’t have. It’s what you do.” Never a truer word spoken. For the both of them, he guessed. He heard John put the bottle down on the table, the soft chink of it sounded impossibly loud.  
“I can’t have you?”  
“Not anymore.” He whispered it, because if he didn’t the world would crash down on his head. First Mary and now John. “You saw to that.” And with those words, he heard the first stirrings of anger in John and he was glad for it, glad that he’d caused it, glad that he’d broken his cocky little moves down.

“So did you.” Years ago, centuries ago it felt like. Last night it felt like. Arthur pushing John away as he pressed against him ‘we can’t do this no more. Not now, not with Abigail and the baby.’ and John, young and full of fire and desires that went beyond Arthur, asking him why’s it gotta change and knowing the answer, saying it for him because Arthur was too powerless in that moment, too much of a coward to say it.  
‘Because of Isaac and Eliza? No. Because of Mary? Ain’t never stopped you Arthur. Ain’t never made you quit fucking me.’ The truth making him vicious, a hand on Marstons throat, his lips pressed to his ear as he hissed  
‘Don’t say those things to me, boy’ and…  
And.  
‘Why? Cause someone will hear?’ Pressed hard against each other, still Arthur couldn’t control his bodys reaction. “Or because Dutch will hear.’  
“We ain’t having this conversation again.” Back in the moment, Arthur looked to John and hoped his tone was sharp enough to cut through the booze and the desire. It did. In a way.

“We don’t have to be having any kind of conversation at all.” And at once Johns voice was back to deep, water over rocks, needful. Arthur closed his eyes and tilted his head back as John walked forwards. “Most times, you never needed words.” A hand in his hair, gently pushing the stray strands from his forehead. A touch. Soft. Not faked platitudes. Not a pat on the back for the good son. Arthur swallowed hard and hated himself.  
“Most times you never gave me chance for them.” He spread his hands over Johns slim waist, slipped them down so they cupped his backside. He felt him tense, heard the sigh of relief. He hated himself a little less for that.  
“Arthur.” How long had it been since he’d heard his name whispered like that. Like a curse and a prayer all wrapped into one. Years. Years on years. Because only one person ever used it like that. A person who had claimed want, and left him for a year. 

“This ain’t a good idea.” But John was already moving, tugging his own clothes off and dumping them in a pile on the floor before grabbing Arthurs hand and guiding it to his cock. God, when they’d first started doing this John had been so shy, practically a virgin, nineteen and so eager and Arthur had had to hold himself back. So as not to hurt him. So as not to ruin him. But he had, hadn’t he? Because here he was, Johnny Marston, brazenly thrusting into his hand, sinuous hips languidly moving, head thrown back into shadow. Arthurs answering hardness jutted up painfully against his stomach and before he realised, he was reaching down to touch himself as well.  
“Jesus, Arthur.” John stumbled back a step, eyes wide in the dark, watching him hungrily. He never felt more on display with anyone but John. Even when he wasn’t, quite literally, on display. He reached out, grabbed Johns hand and pressed a kiss to a bruised knuckle.  
“Since you’re here, when you shouldn’t be. Asking for stuff you shouldn’t be asking for.” He heard his own voice grow deep, saw Johns cock twitch and smiled. It was probably not a good smile. “I’m going to ride you raw.” It gratified him when he saw Johns knees buckle, just a little. He moved to grab John and tug him onto his lap when he stepped back out of range. “Scared?” It hurt, hurt to hell to see him do it, but he guessed he wasn’t surprised. The thought of it must have excited John more than the act.  
“Never.” Hands gripped at his arms and tugged him to standing. He could feel the heat coming off his body. “Not of you.” 

He kissed him then, long slender arms snaking around Arthurs shoulders and a persistent tongue licking into him as if he could drink him down. John always kissed like this, little skill and all passion. It had been so long. But he had never forgotten it. He fought a sudden wave of despair, and heard himself gasp into Johns mouth as he pressed his whole body against him, rolling his hips against his, brushing their cocks together on every slide.  
“Wouldn’t this be better on the bed?” He stroked his hands down Johns back, gripping at the tops of his thighs and pulling his legs apart. “You always liked the bed Johnny Marston.”  
“No. Do it here.” He felt himself being manhandled and let it happen. Maybe he was still in some sort of shock. Or maybe he just wanted someone to take control for once.  
“Jeeesus.” He heard himself whisper, as John turned and gripped the edge of the table, all but fucking presented himself to him. “You’re going to kill me boy.” He shoved his fingers into Johns mouth before he could talkback at him. “Kinda like it when you can’t answer me.” He murmured, pushing his fingers in and out like a simulated fuck. He even felt John swallow around him, bringing all sorts of memories long hidden in the broken corners of his mind.  
“Arthur.” His name, he fucking hated his name. And yet, when John mumbled it like that, it wasn’t so bad. “Please.”  
“It’s gonna hurt, Marston.” He couldn’t bring himself, not yet, to say his name. To murmur John like he used to, when he was still angry, still burning at the idea that he had somehow been tricked into this, ready and aching to go as he was. “I got no grease or nothing.” It was going to hurt him, hurt both of them. But maybe that was right, in a way.  
John reared up on his forearms and pushed back hard against him when he pressed a finger, slick with only spit inside. “It’s gonna hurt.” He whispered again as John’s finger joined his, his impatience knowing no bounds. 

God. He missed this. The feel of him, the tight goddamn wrong-rightness of him. The way he pulled him in. 

“Please.” It wasn’t a plea. It wasn’t the begging of some two cent whore. It was the demand of an equal. Arthur looked down at the prone figure, at the broad shoulders tapering to a slender waist. At the corded muscle. At the spread legs. At where his cock was pressing in. He squeezed his eyes shut.  
“I’m going to fucking kill you for this, John Marston.” He heard him laugh, the slight hysterical laugh of pain and pleasure and it rose higher than it should have, high enough for Arthur to reach down and clamp his hand over his mouth. “Ssh, hush now. Not a sound.” He ground his hips forward, testing, slowly, leaning over to spit some more and ease the way. He thrust again and felt more than heard John groan against his hand. He pulled out and thrust a third time, a fourth, a fifth, gaining a rhythm, his other hand splayed across Johns back as if to hold him there.  
“Harder.” The muffled word was bitten into his palm and he laughed.  
“You sure?” He couldn’t believe the tease in his voice. He couldn’t believe the freedom in his movements. In his mind. “I can go harder but you might not like it.” John turned his head to the side and glared at him. Already his hair was sticking to his forehead, the back of his neck. He should cut it, Arthur thought absently, that stupid long hair. He gripped a fistfull of it, tugging his head back, and he felt John lose control. 

That was new. 

He bowed over him, one hand gripped tight in his hair, the other splayed over his mouth. His thrusts weren’t as deep from this angle, but they were fast and he shuddered with the knowledge that he could hear the slap of skin on skin. It was too loud. They were too loud. And yet, he pressed his forehead to Johns temple and gloried in the whimpers, the moans and the gasps. No one got fucked quite like John.  
“Ssh.” He whispered it. Wet tears touched his lips as he kissed his eyes. “Hush, keep it down Marston. You want to wake up the whole camp?” A flashback, a hundred flashbacks, of the same words said a hundred different ways. He’d missed this. He wanted to deny it to himself, even as sensation threatened to overwhelm him, he wanted to tell himself that he hadn’t missed it, that he was wrong. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t believe he was doing this again. He never wanted it to stop.  
“Arthur.” Johns hands gripped at his hair, eyes screwed shut, hips desperately thrusting back against Arthurs, taking him, taking all of him “Arthur, Arthur...love…” Arthur swallowed hard. And pressed his hand back over his mouth.  
“No.” It came out more forceful than he wanted it to. It came out with a world of hurt and hatred. “We don’t say that.”  
“Why?” John ripped his hand from his mouth. They were still so close, fucking continuously, sticky skin to sticky skin and Arthur thought he might explode. “Cause I’m not her? Or cause I’m not him.” The last word was spat out, followed by a groan from a particularly savage thrust that had scraped the table across the floor, lifting John almost off his feet and stopping his heart for a second.  
“You know why.” He did. They both did. The world wasn’t kind to people like them. Mary aside...others aside, what he and John had could span decades if they wanted it. And never once would Arthur ever let him say aloud how he felt. To do that...no. “Just think it, if you have to.” It was the only concession he could give him. This stupid, fucking fool. 

John nodded beneath him, fingers falling slack from his hair as Arthur thrust harder, pulling almost all out only to shove back in, faster and faster and faster until…  
“Jesus fuck…” John came apart. Beautiful. Sweaty and breathless and beautiful. Think it, if he must.  
Beautiful.

Arthur moved, rearing back and pressing his hands to the table now, changing the angle again and chasing his own orgasm. Fast approaching, balls tightening, fire and heat in his stomach and Johns limp, lax hole taking it all. Closer and closer, Johns fingers now entwined with his, sweat dripping from Arthur's forehead onto the small of Johns back. Closer...closer...and then movement, out of the corner of his eye. The all too familiar scent of cigar smoke. A darker silhouette on the balcony and the knowledge of being seen. As had happened six years ago. Happened and never spoken of.  
Seen. By him.  
Eyes locked. For a second. Again. With him.  
Arthur came. Like a whip crack. Like the kick of a gun. Sudden and all at once. He came with those eyes on him, with those fingers in his. He came with the taste of Johns kisses and the scent of cigar smoke in his gut. He came fast and gut-wrenchingly hard. 

Then the silhouette was gone, as if it had never been there, and he slipped out of John with a groan, the sound of his seed splattering to the ground made him bark out a shocked laugh, which was joined by John who slid bonelessly to the floor, reaching up after a second to grab his bottle of rum. Arthur tugged his jeans on, cold suddenly.  
“I needed that.” Arthur tossed him a rag to clean himself off.  
“You needed that?” So...he hadn’t seen him. He would have said, would have taunted. That was good.  
“What? You thought this was all about you?” Arthur watched as he swiped the rag over his stomach, thinking it such a waste, wanting to taste. Even his cock gave a half-hearted twitch at the thought. “Arthur Morgan, you self-centered bastard.” He handed the rum to him and Arthur took a swig. He watched as John tilted his head back against the wall and smiled contentedly to himself. He settled himself on the bed, orgasm leaving him drowsy now, and not so angry with the world. He even smiled.  
“John Marston, you sneaky little shit.”


End file.
